I Know What It's Like
by clair beaubien
Summary: Tag scene, set vaguely in S8. Cas finally tries to thank Sam for reaching out to him in MTNB.


One late afternoon, when Dean had gone to obtain dinner for himself and his brother, I took the opportunity to have a private moment with Sam. Deep in research, he was at the motel table, with a book at one hand, a pad of paper and pen at the other, and his open computer right in the middle.

"Sam, I wonder if I might have a word with you?"

"Uh, yeah, Cas. Sure." He said as he pulled his gaze from the work in front of him. "What's up?" He didn't sound worried or annoyed, only interested and concerned.

That interest and concern was mirrored in his eyes and I found myself hesitating at the unquestioning, entirely undeserved, acceptance I found there.

"I wanted to thank you."

"Thank me? For what?"

"For –"

I hesitated again. It'd been over two years since the event in question, but nonetheless, I felt I owed Sam deep and heartfelt thanks.

"When I assimilated the souls from Purgatory and wreaked utter devastation both in Heaven and on earth, among the countless billions of beings who were crying out for justice and revenge, you alone offered me hope, and a chance for redemption. So – thank you, for not giving up on me."

As I was speaking, I could tell that Sam was getting increasingly uncomfortable. He returned his gaze to his computer, he adjusted the position of his pen on the table, he smoothed the pages of his book, he resettled himself in the hard motel chair. Finally, as I finished speaking, he turned back to me.

"I know what it's like to-" He shrugged, and seemed to be searching his mind, for an appropriate analogy or metaphor, perhaps. Or perhaps cataloguing what he felt were his own failings. He shrugged again. "I know what's it's like." He ended simply.

"Even knowing _'what it's like'_, you completely overlooked all of the physical and emotional harm I had inflicted on you, whether directly or indirectly, right up until that time, and reached out to me."

"It was never about me." Sam said.

"On the contrary, it was _overwhelmingly_ about you."

"No. It was always about the end game, about the results. I was only the vehicle, _one _of the vehicles, they needed to make it happen. I was a piece of the puzzle, nothing more."

"No, you were more than that, Sam. At least – to me you were more than that. " And I was suddenly faced with something else I'd never said to him. "I'm sorry, Sam. I long considered you my friend and yet I exploited your vulnerability for my own ends. And despite that, you refused to give up on me. Even now, despite all you suffered since I destroyed the Wall, I know that you bear no malice towards me. That you never did."

My stated observations were making him even more uncomfortable; he drew his hands from the table and into his lap, he turned to look out the motel window – and I did wonder if he was hoping Dean would execute a miraculous feat of bilocation and return _immediately – _and he somehow seemed _smaller_, sitting in that chair.

"Like I said, Cas, it's not about _me._ And even if it was, I just – after what I did, all the horrible choices I've made, all the people who died or suffered because of me – I just – I was just trying to keep more people from suffering."

"And so you save the world a second time."

"_No._"

I was surprised at the vehemence with which he answered that statement.

"If it hadn't been for you, Sam, there's no telling where – or _if_ – my atrocities would have stopped. Believe me, you saved the world a second time."

He had no answer to that for several moments.

"What else could I do? People were dying. I had to try and stop it. I had to try and stop _you._"

"You weren't trying to _stop _me, Sam. You were trying to _save_ me. Even if I'd wiped every soul from the planet and stood alone at last amid the devastation I had created, I am of the unshakeable belief that you would have reached out to me, for my benefit, to save me from myself."

He gave another long look out of the window and across the parking lot that was still missing one car in particular.

"I've never not been forgiven." He said, and I knew from whom he had always received the forgiveness in question. "Despite every single stain of blood on my hands, every mistake and betrayal and royal f**k up I've ever – " He stopped, again, and shook his head, drew a deep sigh and turned from the window. He placed his hands back on his computer and pen, and kept his gaze quite decidedly on his book. "I've _always_ been forgiven. How could I not forgive in turn?"

There were many, many things I could've said to that. Golden platitudes, shiny aphorisms, empty clichés. None of them would've been fitting. None of them would've _fit._ I had before me a complex man who had made a world-altering decision based on profound reasonings; yet he saw it as a simple choice made for a simple reason. _Forgiveness received, forgiveness given._ Never mind that the total number of people across the world who could be counted on to feel and act the same way amounted to a half dozen or less. To Sam Winchester, it was impossible to consider doing anything else.

"Nonetheless – thank you." I told him, again, and turned away, intending to leave him to his research, and was not surprised to hear a very quiet,

"_You're welcome."_

The End


End file.
